Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  She shrugs. The tears are gone, but there are dark hollows under her eyes. “Okay.”

  I wait for her to turn around or walk off—I don’t even know where she lives—but she keeps on walking along beside me.

  I turn down my street. We walk together, passing several houses with EMORY KRUFFS FOR CITY COUNCIL signs in their windows. We reach the last two houses at the end of the street: my house and Mrs. Simpson’s.

  “I’m going to feed the cat,” I announce.

  Violet looks at me. She smiles.

  I unlock Mrs. Simpson’s door, and we go inside. Right away, I can tell something’s wrong.

  “Where’s the cat?” I whisper. My skin prickles with goose bumps.

  “Maybe it’s asleep?”

  “But it’s always been waiting here before.”

  Inside, there’s no sign of the cat, and other things are different too. Mrs. Simpson’s pictures have been taken off the wall and stacked against each other, and a lot of her knickknacks have been cleared away. There are a few open boxes with bubble wrap spilling out. Mrs. Simpson is obviously in no condition for spring cleaning, so it can only be one person—Mr. Kruffs. The idea that he’s been here gives me the creeps.

  Violet seems to have the same thought. “What if he’s still here?” she says anxiously.

  We stand still, listening for sounds from upstairs or inside the kitchen. Everything is quiet.

  I straighten my shoulders. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re only here to feed the cat.”

  “Maybe we should leave.”

  “I’m staying,” I say. “We may never get another chance to be here. You can go if you want to.” I give her a sideways glance. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Her violet eyes widen with shared understanding. “Okay,” she says. “What should we make tonight?”

  The kitchen has avoided being ransacked, but only barely. The cat’s bed and food dish are gone—at least whoever took the cat away is going to feed it. There are other things different too: dirty cups in the sink, a list of moving companies on the counter, and the little book of recipes is off its wooden book stand. I notice how tattered its binding is, how faded the cover. It’s covered with crumbs, like someone used it for a cutting board to make a sandwich on.

  I pick up the book and blow off the crumbs. I set it back on the book stand and open it up at random. It falls open almost automatically to a recipe for Georgie Porgie’s Banoffee Pie.

  “Banoffee Pie!” Violet says. “That’s my favorite dessert in the whole world.”

  I lower my eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.” I skim over the ingredients. Banana and toffee—not two things I would ever have thought of putting together—plus lots of cream.

  “Are you serious? Then we have to make it!”

  Violet’s excitement wins me over—that, and the fact that there’s a fruit bowl in the center of the table that has a big bunch of fresh bananas in it. Some things are just meant to be, I guess.

  “Okay,” I say, “let’s do it.”

  The rest of the ingredients aren’t on hand this time. It’s as if the magic kitchen elves have all fled after Mr. Kruffs’s visit. We have to dig through the cupboards to find a packet of graham crackers, a can of condensed milk, and a half-used pack of brown sugar. In the very back of the fridge, we find the cream and butter.

  When everything is assembled, I read through the recipe again. “Look at him,” Violet says over my shoulder, pointing to the cartoon-like picture of fat little Georgie Porgie. He’s chasing a flock of merry girls with his lips pursed in a kiss. “He’s gross.” She makes a face. “I wouldn’t want him to kiss me. Unless he happened to grow up to be a boy like Nick Farr.”

  My insides shake. “Nick Farr?”

  “He’s cute, isn’t he?” She laughs.

  “Yeah.” There seems to be no point in lying.

  I turn on the stove, ready to melt the butter. For some reason, I feel kind of nervous and on edge—it could be the hospital visit, or the intruder that was here. But if I’m being honest, it’s probably Violet’s mention of Nick Farr.

  Violet squishes the graham crackers into crumbs and tips them into the pan. As I stir them into the butter, I begin to feel a little calmer.

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” Violet says.

  “Who?” I say, startled.

  “Mr. Kruffs. It’s kind of creepy that he’s been here.”

  I look around Rosemary’s Kitchen. It seems lonely without the cat. “Maybe Mr. Kruffs has permission to be here, I don’t know…” I trail off. “I wish there was something we could do to help Mrs. Simpson.”

  Violet brings over some pans from the cupboard. We press the crumbly mixture in the bottom and then put the whole thing in the fridge to set. “Like what?” she says.

  I shake my head. “Right now, I don’t have a clue.”

  Chapter 17

  Secret Samples

  I really don’t know what to do about Mrs. Simpson. But I do know that making the banoffee pie is a blast. Violet and I triple the recipe—so we have enough for us, plus lots of free samples for school. Luckily, Rosemary’s Kitchen has plenty of bowls and pie pans.

  Making the filling is sweet and sticky and messy and fun. We gorge ourselves on bananas and licking out the bowls. Then we talk and laugh and look through the cupboards while the pies set in the fridge. I find several large chocolate bars and take them out.

  “The recipe says to decorate the pies with chocolate curls,” I say, pointing to the book.

  “We can use these too.” Violet takes out a container of baking decorations—sprinkles of all sizes and colors, icing bags and colors, even gold leaf you can eat.

  When the pies have chilled, we take them out one by one—two round ones, and two that we made in containers shaped like a heart and a gingerbread man. “Look, it’s Georgie Porgie,” I say when I take the swirly banana cream man out of the fridge. We both laugh.

  I make the chocolate curls using a vegetable peeler like the recipe book says to do. Violet decorates Georgie Porgie with little icing stars and a tie made of multicolored sprinkles. She gives him eyes of chocolate buttons and an icing nose and mouth. I can’t help laughing as I add his hair of chocolate curls—I’ve never seen such a fancy pie before, and Georgie Porgie looks nothing like Nick Farr. Violet laughs too and gives him a collar and belt of crystallized violets. He ends up looking like a large, goopy snowman.

  On the heart-shaped pie, Violet writes “The Secret Cooking Club” in big, loopy icing letters, and I cover the rest in sprinkles and chocolate curls. Finally, we’re done.

  “They look fab,” I say, beaming. We find some deep Tupperware cake containers to use to take the pies to school tomorrow. Then we sit and eat the little round one we’ve made for ourselves.

  The pie is gooey and moist, and the taste of toffee and fresh banana seems like the most natural combination of flavors in the whole world.

  “Mmm,” Violet purrs, taking a bite. “This is the best.”

  I let cool sweet cream settle on my tongue for a second before swallowing. It’s delicious and sweet, but not too sweet—like Goldilocks’s porridge, it’s just right. I still can’t believe we’ve made it ourselves. But we did!

  “We’ll need plastic bowls and spoons for school.” I lick the cream off my upper lip. “It’s pretty gooey.”

  “Yeah,” Violet says between bites. “We can get them at the store on the way to school. Do you have any money?”

  “I’ve got some saved from my allowance. I can use that.”

  We clean everything up and put the pies back in Mrs. Simpson’s fridge to chill overnight. We agree that I’ll come and get them tomorrow before school.

  It’s dark by the time we leave the house, and stepping outside is like plunging into a cold bath. Nothing seems real to me anymore, ot
her than Rosemary’s Kitchen. Violet seems unusually quiet, as if she feels the same as me.

  “You okay?” I ask. We stand at the dim edge of a circle of streetlight.

  “Yeah.” Violet nods. “See you tomorrow.” She turns and starts walking. I stand there watching her go until she turns the corner and disappears.

  • • •

  This time when I get home, I’m not so lucky as before. Mom is in the kitchen, frantically calling people on her phone, looking for me.

  “Seriously, Scarlett,” she says, “I was worried sick. Where have you been?”

  I sit at the table, feeling exhausted. I wish I could tell Mom everything—about the hospital, the cooking, Mrs. Simpson, and how we have to save her from Mr. Kruffs. And about the excellent banoffee pie we made. I open my mouth and close it again. I can’t tell Mom anything. If I do, I’ll only regret it.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I say, half meaning it. “There’s a new girl at school—I went over to her house. We’re working on a project together for science.”

  Mom doesn’t ask the girl’s name, and I don’t volunteer it. She shakes her head. “Honestly, Scarlett. I mean, I know you don’t want to talk to me anymore, but you really can’t do that kind of thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that…” I take a breath. I’m going to tell her how I feel. I’m going to see if we can be friends again. I’m going to—

  “Don’t do it again.” Her face is red as she checks her watch. “I’m so behind. My guest post for the Scary Kids website is due tomorrow. I can’t believe how thoughtless you are sometimes.”

  She turns and marches off into the Mom Cave. The door slams behind her. With a big sigh, I go upstairs to my room and crawl into bed. I dream of a flock of girls chasing a pie-shaped Nick Farr, whose eyes meet mine as he runs away.

  • • •

  The next morning I wake up with butterflies in my stomach. I find my allowance box in my sock drawer and open it. There are a few loose coins in the bottom, but the ten-dollar bill I had inside is gone. I groan softly. Not only does Mom often forget to give me my allowance, but she’s always “borrowing” money from me when she forgets to go to the ATM.

  Snores are coming from Mom’s room, and I don’t want to wake her. Instead, I head downstairs to the Mom Cave where she keeps her purse. As usual, her desk is a mess. There are papers everywhere—crumpled drafts of articles and blog posts, letters from Superdrug and glossy photos of the Survival Kit packaging. I’m struck by how hard Mom is working to keep her blog empire going.

  I find Mom’s purse and “re-borrow” my money, scribbling on a yellow sticky note to let her know. Underneath the bag there’s a piece of paper—a printout of something she’s writing, half of which is crossed out in red pen. My stomach knots as I skim over the uncrossed-out part.

  “Me Against Her: Why Have We Grown So Apart?”

  It starts out in a joking way, stuff like: “I never wanted to be one of those pushy parents. But now I see I messed up big-time. I mean, if I’d known my daughter was going to hate me by the time she was a teenager, I should have made sure she was a concert pianist.”

  I read on. Instead of going into the usual stuff, I’m surprised by what she’s written. “Lately, something weird has happened. I’ve started remembering what it was like to be her age. It began when I had a craving for macaroni and cheese—the way my grandma used to make it. And I started wondering: How does she feel, and have I really been paying attention…?”

  The paragraph is scribbled out in red pen. But the words are there in black and white.

  Chapter 18

  In the Hall

  Violet is waiting for me in front of the store. I’ve got the three Tupperware containers in a huge burlap bag I found in Rosemary’s Kitchen. We’ve got just enough money to buy a package of plastic bowls and spoons and some baking powder, which we’re almost out of at Mrs. Simpson’s.

  “It’s your turn today,” she says as we’re on our way out.

  “My turn? For what?”

  “To set up the secret samples. You just have to make sure you get to the cafeteria before everyone else. And don’t forget to make a sign to put on the table.”

  “Me?” My heart thumps in alarm. “I thought you were going to do it.”

  “I did it last time. I mean, I can’t go to the bathroom every day at the same time, can I?”

  “I don’t know.” We walk on in silence as worry fizzes in my veins. What if someone notices me sneaking three creamy mountains of banoffee pie into the cafeteria? Word travels fast around school. It isn’t just me I’m worried about, but the Secret Cooking Club. It may only be Violet and me, but if I lose that, then what’s left?

  The morning flies by. I try to focus on misplaced commas and then algebra, but I keep staring at the clock as it gets nearer and nearer to the time when I’m supposed to raise my hand and ask if I can go to the bathroom. Twenty minutes to go, then ten, then five.

  Just as I’m about to raise my hand, Nick Farr beats me to it.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fry, but I need the bathroom,” he says.

  The math teacher gets a boys’ bathroom pass down from the wall and hands it to him.

  “Uh, me too,” I say in a small voice. I can feel the redness creeping over my face as someone behind me snickers.

  The teacher puts her hands on her hips. “Lunch is in fifteen minutes. Can’t you wait?”

  “No, Mrs. Fry.” My skin crawls with the eyes of everyone looking at me. When the banoffee pie turns up in the cafeteria, everyone will certainly know it was me.

  But what can I do? I look pleadingly in Violet’s direction, but she’s staring at her notebook, her blue-black hair a curtain in front of her face. With an irritated sigh, the teacher gives me a girls’ bathroom pass. I hold my breath until I’m across the room and out the door.

  The hallway is empty—no sign of Nick. I hurry down the hall to the vacant Food and Nutrition classroom where I’ve stowed the burlap bag of banoffee pies in the refrigerator. They’re right where I left them, along with the bag of plastic bowls and spoons. I scoop everything up and go back into the hallway. I rush past the bathrooms toward the cafeteria. If anyone spots me now—

  A door swooshes open just behind me.

  I’m caught!

  I can feel eyes on my back. His eyes. Nick Farr. Captain of the soccer team, star science student, good friend of Gretchen, Alison, and all the popular girls. Admired by the rest of us from afar—but in this case, not far enough.

  “Scarlett?”

  His voice.

  “You okay?”

  I turn around, my eyes wide like a deer in the headlights.

  “Yeah, fine.” I force a smile.

  He stares at the big bag in my hand.

  “What have you got there?”

  “Um, nothing.” Before he can say another word, I go into the girls’ bathroom. I stand there, panting, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is as frazzled as I feel, and the skin of my neck is covered with guilty-looking red blotches. My mind is a whirlwind of indecision. Do I go back to the empty classroom and hide the goods? Do I continue with my mission like nothing’s happened? Do I tell Violet? Try to talk to Nick and see if he’ll keep it a secret? Or maybe he won’t put two and two together. Okay, that’s pretty unlikely.

  I smooth my hair and scowl at my reflection. “Get a grip,” I say to the girl staring back.

  The hallway is empty when I leave the bathroom. I rush to the cafeteria; my hand is shaking as I take out the pies and set them in a row on the table. The lunch workers are talking loudly behind their little window as they do the final preparations for lunch, but they don’t notice me. I get the bowls and spoons out of the bag—why didn’t I take them out of the packaging before I got here?—and manage to wrestle them out of the plastic wrapping, ripping a fingernail in the process. Final
ly, I unfold my sign and tape it to the edge of the table: FREE SAMPLES—FROM THE SECRET COOKING CLUB.

  I turn and rush out of the cafeteria and down the hallway. I slip back into the classroom as everyone is putting away their notebooks before lunch. When I reach my seat, I can’t help looking to the front of the room—where Nick Farr sits. He turns around and his gaze meets mine, just like in my dream. My stomach turns over. He gives me a wide, melting grin…then puts a finger to his lips.

  Chapter 19

  The Secret Cooking Club Strikes Again

  There’s a rush of fluttering papers and scraping chairs as the class breaks for lunch. Violet gives me a knowing look from across the room and then goes to join Gretchen and Alison. I feel a stab of jealousy, but part of our cover is that Violet and I won’t hang out together at school. I follow the crowds of kids to the cafeteria.

  I sit at my usual table near the door. A number of people are already lined up at the center table, waiting to take a bowl of banoffee pie. It’s the same as before—the goths, the sports crowd, the geeks. My heart lurches as Gretchen pushes her way to the front, flanked by Alison and Violet.

  But if anyone was expecting another laugh-in, they’re in for a surprise. One of the goth girls—tall and skinny with dark black eyeliner—elbows Gretchen out of the way. “There’s a line, you know,” she says tersely.

  I hold my breath as Gretchen turns to face the girl, craning her neck. “What did you say?” she challenges.

  The tall girl snorts. Two of her pale-faced friends come up on either side of her like twin phantoms. “Wait your turn.”

  “Get over yourself,” Gretchen says. Her face has a strange grayish tinge to it… Is she sick?

  The tall girl glances at her two friends, glares at Gretchen, and gives a little snort. “You know what?” she says, flicking her hand. “You go ahead. Be my guest.”

  Gretchen gives her a fake little PTA princess smile. She takes a big goopy piece of pie. Everyone is watching as she holds the plastic spoon to her nose, sniffs it, then takes a bite.